One Day in the Barn
by Dukes126plus
Summary: That look on Luke’s face right there, that’s no good. From Uncle Boss. /Warnings: Slash, incest/


This one's from _Uncle Boss_. The inspiration came from a brief scene where Bo is re-shoeing Maudine. It came out quick and, erm, dirty. Dumb title because I couldn't come up with a smart one.

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That look on Luke's face right there, that's no good. It's the kind of thing Bo's seen right before Luke tempts fate (and invites burned breakfast) by telling Daisy that the ice cream cone she and Enos shared last night obviously went straight to her waist, or when he's just about to point out that Bo's "shortcut" takes twice as long as crawling on their bellies would have. There's something else in that look, too, something that puts the flavor of beer onto Bo's tongue, makes the barn reek of cigarette smoke, and the dirt floor shake to the sound of a jukebox. Suddenly, instead of Tuesday morning chores, it feels like they're out juking on a Saturday night.

Even less good than the look is the fact that he's coming closer, all saunter crossed with swagger, the kind of mix only Luke can pull off. Jesse's gone back to the house, leaving them to finish shoeing Maudine. Luke's done smithing the shoes; he's been leaning on a support beam watching Bo do his part by nailing the suckers back onto Maudine's hooves. For all that he acts like the farm just couldn't run without the strength of Luke Duke's back, seems to Bo he spends enough time using that back to prop up beams and doorsills. Leaning time is over now, though, and that's a shame, because here comes Luke with that look that has Bo's head spinning, glancing around for the girl that's caught his cousin's fancy, and finding only Maudine.

Rough, thick finger under the smock strap, and Bo remembers that he took his shirt off before starting this dirty job. Maudine's hooves aren't exactly covered in sugar, and while the smock is meant to protect Bo from what's really on there, the mule always manages to leave her calling card on the sleeve of those light-colored shirts he wears.

"Nice look, Bo," and that finger under the strap slides down, tickling the sweaty skin underneath. Shirtless under a smock, Bo would never have described that as his best look, but there in Luke's tight little smile, and down in Luke's even tighter pants, is the unmistakable hard evidence that his cousin firmly believes the words he has just said.

Or Luke has lost his mind. Bo would bet on the latter. Suddenly there's wood behind his back, shirtless like this he can feel every old splinter that would like to make its new home in the soft skin there. He's traveled a long way to get from where Maudine still stands, eyeing the foolish humans, to where he is now; he can't remember taking a single step.

Luke's hand has slipped away from the strap and down, finding Bo's bare ribcage through the open side of the smock, width of his giant thumb stroking up and down there, light scratch with every move. Must be the tickle that makes Bo smile through his fear. (Fear? This is Luke. Still, his heart's about to spring right out of his chest. That's got to mean he's scared, even if he has no desire to be anywhere but here.)

Luke's closer now than the two of them ever get, at least on purpose. Seems he's known the feel of Luke's hips on his before, but maybe that was in the middle of trying to wrestle his cousin down from that pompous position he took on Diane. Luke's breath, hot in his ear, that he hasn't felt since the need for telling secrets went the way of foolish innocence and the assumption that Jesse wouldn't know what they were up to if they kept it down to a whisper.

Whisper, more touching—"You should work like this more often," in his ear, panting like the middle of sprinting from the law. Luke's hips against his, pressing him into the wall, and here, finally, Bo drops the mallet that fell limp in his hands about the time he decided that no matter how crazy Luke is, he's not going to try knocking any sense into him. Tool gone, arms around Luke, kissing to the wild rhythm of the shared jukebox in their heads, taste of beer, smell of cigarettes, and a vague hope that Jesse has lain down for a late morning nap, and that whatever Hughie Hogg is up to, it can wait an hour or so…


End file.
